Watch Your Tail
by Supervillegirl
Summary: Part 13 of my Tail series. A most despicable enemy gets hold of Sherlock's secret.


Watch Your Tail

Sherlock came to on a cold, hard metal table. He looked down to realize that his wrists were shackled to the table, along with his legs. Oh, and his clothes were missing.

The shackles were placed just so that he couldn't move his hands much, and therefore, couldn't use his powers to free himself. And from how the bar over his legs was over both instead of separating each leg, it was clear what had happened.

_Magnussen sold me out, _Sherlock thought. _Shit!_

Sherlock had finally pissed off Charles Augustus Magnussen—the Napoleon of blackmail—and the man had told someone of his secret. And now, they were clearly going to experiment.

_How wonderful, _Sherlock thought. _I get to live out John's worst fear._

A door slammed open somewhere above Sherlock's head. He determined right then to not give this person any satisfaction. He would not talk, yell or pay any attention to them whatsoever.

A man walked into view, standing next to the table and staring down at him. He was a slightly heavyset man with thinning blonde hair, a leering gaze and what seemed to be a permanent scowl on his face. His lips opened over a set of teeth that had clearly never seen braces. "Well, well, well. Bet you wonder what you're doing here."

Sherlock only stared up at the ceiling.

"Your friend Magnussen gave you up," the man continued.

Sherlock ignored him.

"Nothing?" said the man. "Very well. We'll get right into it."

The man turned away, and Sherlock looked over at him. The man moved over to a nozzle on the wall. The pipe connected to it ran up the wall, across the ceiling and ran down to a faucet right above him.

_Dammit, _thought Sherlock.

The man turned the nozzle, and water sprayed thinly from the faucet like a fire sprinkler, misting over Sherlock's body. After a few seconds, Sherlock transformed into his merman form, his thicker tail pushing against the leg restraint.

"My God," whispered the man. "It really is true."

After several seconds, the man came back into view as Sherlock blinked away the water still misting over him. The man had a scalpel in hand.

"Shall we?" the man asked, a hungry gleam in his eyes.

* * *

Sherlock gasped in oxygen hungrily, trying to control the pain in his mind. It wasn't working. New injuries were coming too soon to allow recovery from the previous one. It had been he didn't even know how many hours, and the pain hadn't stopped once. It was like the man had endless energy for torture.

"I don't usually get the chance to play like this," said the man, his voice hissing through his misaligned teeth as he cleaned some tools. "You see, you can't have this kind of fun at the hospital. Death has to look like natural causes or some complication of surgery. Not that they would ever suspect me in the first place if they found foul play." He pulled a pair of medical scissors from his tray. "I'm far too much of a celebrity for that."

He moved down to Sherlock's tail. "Like you. Hmm…how wonderful. I get to kill the great Sherlock Holmes." He lowered the scissors and quickly snipped off one of the corners of Sherlock's tail fin.

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut as he ground his teeth together. _Don't scream, don't scream! _He panted through his nose as he tried to breathe through the blinding pain.

"You see, dead bodies are things," the man simpered as he held the snipped off piece of tail up to the light to examine it. "I like making people into things." He dropped the tail and moved back to Sherlock's side as he opened his eyes. The man leaned over Sherlock's face, smiling in a spine-chilling manner. "It just makes me…incredibly happy."

Sherlock finally broke his vow and looked his captor right in the eye, glaring at him.

"Don't think I've introduced myself, by the way," the man said. "You probably don't pay attention to socialites like me. Culverton Smith. Pleasure to meet you…Sherlock Holmes."

Smith eased away from Sherlock's face and dragged the scissors over Sherlock's torso, digging the sharp end in deeper as he went. It was finally too much for Sherlock, who let out a yell.

* * *

Sherlock was barely conscious. He didn't know how much more his body could take before he died. It didn't help that his merman powers kept bringing him back from the edge.

"So," came Smith's voice.

How Sherlock would love to freeze the condescending, chill-inducing voice right out of him. As it was, he couldn't even manage an eye roll.

"We've seen how your other side heals," said Smith. He looked down at Sherlock's human form. "How about this one?"

_Good, kill me, _Sherlock thought.

Smith plunged the scalpel into his side. Sherlock let out a keening moan but had no more energy to scream. The scalpel withdrew, and Sherlock felt the slow, warm trickle of blood down his side. The scalpel descended several more times, sometimes stabbing and sometimes cutting. Then, it was a crowbar, bruising and one time even breaking a rib.

Smith peered down at the older injuries. "Hmm…doesn't seem to be healing like before. Shall we try more?" He moved over to his tray, raising a set of coroner's rib cutters. "I wonder if severed appendages will regrow when you transform." He smirked. "Like a…salamander."

Sherlock's eyes widened as he struggled weakly to move.

Smith walked over to the table. "Take a deep breath, if you like. Don't think it'll help much, though." He set the cutters against his restrained hand, placing Sherlock's right index finger in them. Sherlock let go of his promise to not show weakness and yelled as the cutters began to squeeze around his finger.

_BANG!_

Smith dropped the cutters, the sharp edges slicing along Sherlock's hand, as the door crashed open. Sherlock groaned in pain as it flared in his hand. But, hey, he still had all ten fingers, so he wasn't complaining.

"Freeze!" a man yelled.

There was a big commotion that Sherlock could tell was obviously the authorities, and he closed his eyes in relief. _Thank God._

"Sherlock!"

At the sound of John's voice, he laughed weakly, trying to keep it from becoming a sob.

"My God, what has he done to you?" breathed John from right next to him.

"John…" Sherlock gasped, his eyes opening to little more than slits.

"Shh, try not to talk," said John, glancing up as someone handed him a blanket. He threw it over Sherlock's bare midsection. "Anyone find the keys?"

Sherlock let himself drift as they worked to free him. Too soon, he felt a hand on the side of his face. Sherlock blinked a few times, registering that John was leaning over him.

"Sherlock, can you hear me?" asked John, his brows nearly touching in concern.

"Yeah…" said Sherlock softly.

"I'm gonna need to carry you out now," John told him.

"Don't care…" mumbled Sherlock. "Tired…"

"I know," said John. "You'll be able to sleep soon."

Sherlock felt himself being lifted from the table. His many wounds protested, and he groaned weakly.

"Sorry," said John close to his ear. "I'll make it quick."

It was a long journey from the room where he was held captive to the safe house Mycroft had arranged. And it hurt the whole way.

"Oh, my God," said Molly as John carried Sherlock through the front door.

Sherlock winced as he was laid down on the long sofa. He closed his eyes in relief at the soft surface; honestly, anything was better than that table. He just about drifted off right then and there, but the conversation around him caught his attention.

"He'll heal faster, yeah."

Sherlock heard footsteps leave and then return. He opened his eyes just as someone grabbed his hand. He glanced over to see John holding his arm out over the floor, a glass of water ready to pour over his hand.

_Smith laid down the bloody knife. "There, now." He turned the water on, causing Sherlock to transform and his many injuries to begin healing faster. He gave a seedy smile. "Soon, we'll be able to start fresh."_

"No!" Sherlock yelled, yanking his arm out of John's grasp. He pushed himself painfully into the back of the sofa. "Not again! Don't make me!"

"Sherlock, we heal faster in our mer-forms," John told him consolingly. "You know this."

"I can't," muttered Sherlock, eyeing the water warily. "Not again."

"Sherlock," said Molly softly.

Sherlock's gaze moved to Molly's concerned face.

"What happened?" asked Molly.

Sherlock stared at her for a while before glancing at the glass of water and back to her. "Smith—he…he has an insatiable hunger for causing pain and death. One of the reasons why he hadn't gotten around to killing me yet was because he was enjoying having fresh meat so often."

Molly's jaw dropped. "He would trigger a transformation so you would heal and he could start over."

Sherlock nodded, his gaze back on the water. He startled slightly when he felt a hand over his own. He looked down at the hand and followed it up to Molly's sympathetic gaze.

"That will never happen ever again," Molly told him firmly. "I promise." She smiled at him, tilting her head towards John. "It's _us_, Sherlock."

Sherlock hesitated only a moment longer, telling his terrified instincts that this was a good thing: the pain would go away sooner, and his friends would be there for him. Mentally kicking himself for his ridiculous reaction earlier, he held his arm out over the floor, his muscles shaking in his exhaustion. John poured a little water over it and then put the glass of water nearby for later. Sherlock transformed, and he couldn't help the inhale as his mind brought up the memory of impending pain. He let out the breath as he looked down at his bruised arms. The bruises were slowly fading.

Sherlock relaxed into the sofa as Molly sat down in an armchair next to him, taking hold of his hand. Sherlock glanced up at her, and she smiled reassuringly at him. She then closed her eyes and concentrated on helping him heal. Sherlock looked down at the hand in his and closed his eyes, secretly grateful that she was not leaving him.


End file.
